


Bleach Drabbles

by QTCutie (Qtcutie)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabbles, Im only tagging relationships, M/M, Snippets, bleach has too many characters, check chapter summaries for what's what, honestly idk with some of these
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21967135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qtcutie/pseuds/QTCutie
Summary: A collection of short works cross-posted from my tumblr <3If any of these inspire you to pick them up and flesh them out, feel free, just link it back to here
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Hirako Shinji, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo, Hollow Ichigo | Zangetsu/Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kurosaki Ichigo, Kurosaki Ichigo/Urahara Kisuke, Kyouraku Shunsui/Coyote Starrk/Ukitake Juushiro, Lilynette Gingerbuck & Coyote Starrk, Ulquiorra Cifer/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 123





	1. Could Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coyote&Lilynette, could be read as Stark/Kyoraku pre-slash

Starrk looks at him, and he just. 

Knows. 

He sees a pink kimono and a sad smile and the reiatsu that rolls lazy as the tide around the man, and he  _ knows _ . Instinct. Call, and response, and he couldn’t deny it any more than he could deny the hole in his chest, or Lilynette at his side. 

Any more than he could deny that this man is a shinigami. Any more than he could deny the war being waged around them.

Any more than he could deny the weight of Aizen’s eyes on his back. 

“We can’t,” Lilynette whispers, hisses fierce through bared teeth. “Coyote, we  _ can’t _ .” 

“I know,” Starrk says, and sighs. Glances down at where the others are fighting. For glory. For their lives. For Aizen, and that thought leaves a sour taste in Starrk’s mouth. The man doesn’t care for the Arrancar-- experiments, and cannon fodder, and nothing more. And the Vasto Lordes? Conveniently powerful  _ pets _ , and Starrk is so, so tired.

His hand falls onto her head, and there’s comfort in her presence, always. Wolves aren’t meant to go it alone. That doesn’t change, no matter how powerful the wolf. The instincts are always going to be there, just beneath the surface, fur trying to push its way out like a thousand needles through the skin.

Starrk looks at him, and he just.  _ Knows _ . Wolf recognizes Wolf, a pack that could be. Won’t be. But. Could be. 

“Are you ready to hunt?” Starrk murmurs, soft and just for her, and his once-heart twists at the sad look on Lilynette’s face. Because she sees it too, of course she does. But she reaches up and places her hand over his, and-- “Then,  _ kick about _ .”

It’s. Worse, kind of, when they’re whole. Because Lilynette’s loneliness bleeds into his, wrapping together into a weight that seems to tear through their chest. They are One who became Many, a hundred wolves salivating for the hunt, but it hardly matters, because they are going to die as One, and there is only going to be this strange man in his pink kimono and his strange, sickly white-haired companion who will be there to bear witness to their fall. 

This man will be his end, Starrk knows. And that’s-- it’s fine. Starrk wouldn’t have it any other way.

There is no joy in war, no glory, no honor. No “good” side, no “bad” side. Just the rush of blood through veins as Starrk dodges and weaves, attacks and blocks and ducks beneath that black, curved blade as it swipes for his head. It’s easier, when he doesn’t think about it. Lets it collapse down into a series of motions, act and react. Instinct. Call, and response. 

But that’s always been Starrk’s problem, huh?  _ Overthinking _ . It’s why he could never really trust Aizen, couldn’t even trust the other Espada he was supposed to fight with. Fight  _ for _ . Can’t even trust the certain knowledge that sits in his chest when a cero singes the hem of that pink kimono and that mouth stretches into a clever grin. 

Because he thinks about what could have been, in another life. Another world. And that yawning pit of loneliness threatens to tear him asunder.


	2. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starrk/Kyoraku/Jushiro smut. I'm not apologizing.

“Look at you,” Shunsui cooes. Runs his fingers over where Starrk’s lips are stretched tight. Soft, ever soft, even in the little movements of his hips, as though Starrk is something. Precious. To be treated with the greatest care. Something… “So pretty.”

Jūshirō pulls his fingers free, peppers kisses across Starrk’s shoulders when Starrk whines at the loss. They have him on all fours, face in Shunsui’s lap and Jūshirō at his back, and it’s. Good, it’s amazing,  _ they’re _ amazing. But Starrk pulls off with a gasp, whining into Shunsui’s hip, because it isn’t what Starrk wants, not really. 

_ “Wait _ ,” Starrk gasps, wincing at the way his voice  _ rasps _ , and he can’t look at them, can’t see the concern in their faces, can’t let them talk him out of this. “Wait, please, I--”

It takes some wiggling, helped and hindered by gentle hands, until he’s sprawled out on his back for them. Soft belly exposed, throat on display.  _ Vulnerable _ . Starrk doesn’t know if they realize, if they know what this means. For a Hollow. For a Vasto Lorde. 

_ Look at me _ , it says, and Starrk wants to hide his face even as he tips his head back as far as it will go, shivering at the heavy press of Shunsui’s warm hand there against his throat. Not choking just.  _ Present _ , in the same way Jūshirō dances his fingers up over the wings of Starrk’s hips so he can press his thumbs into that dip just beneath his ribs. 

_ Soft _ , it says.  _ Weak. Vulnerable _ .

_ Yours _ , and when Jūshirō enters him, careful and slow, Starrk  _ keens _ . 


	3. Shrike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byakuya/Ichigo. Twenty years.

It’s a very nice place.

The estate does not sprawl, a thin strip of grass between the house and the treeline, the garden kept tight and well-maintained against the walls. Necessary, Byakuya supposes, for how often the house moves. Only the worn stone of the path beneath his feet reminds him that this building was once part of Seireitei, however long ago.

Byakuya has always known, intellectually, that the Shiba family were nobles, once, and are still very highly respected, but, by the time he became an adult, what little remained of the Shiba family had already become reclusive and distant from the rest of the Soul Society. The death of Shiba Kaien no doubt did little to sway the family opinion back in favor of the Seireitei. That he died by the hands of a Kuchiki did even less to encourage the family to retake their place among nobility. 

The door is ajar. Shiba Kūkaku must be out, for the house to be so silent. Still, Byakuya takes the time to bow, and to remove his shoes just within the door. He has no desire to be presumptuous, and certainly does not wish to be rude. 

For all the exterior gives the illusion of tradition, the interior of the house is really very modern in its layout-- the foyer opens into a large room that encompasses the kitchen, dining area, and sitting area in one. The space does not feel empty and vaulting, though. In truth, Byakuya does not think he has ever felt more at ease in his own home, than he feels here and now. 

He forgoes the small table-- too formal, too  _ intimate _ , even now-- in favor of the dining bar that acts to section the kitchen from the rest of the room. Zangetsu rests against the wood at Byakuya's hip as he sits, not the demure form of a sealed sword or the curved cleaver of shikai, but the slender, black blade of bankai, unsealed in every way a Zanpakutō can be. Apologies, maybe, for the years he and his wielder have spent apart.

Kurosaki Ichigo. Or, maybe, Shiba Ichigo now? Byakuya is not certain what his familial status is, at the moment. It’s. Strange. They’ve been apart for twenty years now, but it doesn’t feel it. Perhaps, because Byakuya has been there for the entirety of it, one of Kurosaki Ichigo’s Watchers while he lived out the rest of his mortal life in the Living World. 

The dark green yukata suits him. Makes him look like the tigerlily he is, bold and bright and beautiful.  _ Twenty years _ , though he does not look a day older than he had been when he gave up his powers. Physically, at least. He smiles more, now, and scowls less, mellowed a touch with time. Favors one side, now, and that is new, and certainly a lingering aftereffect of the--

Ichigo reaches out with one hand, fingers slipping beneath Byakuya’s hair, pulling him gently forward by the back of his neck to place a butterfly kiss against his forehead. 

“Talk to me,” Ichigo requests, simple and soft and with poorly contained  _ joy _ , and Byakuya feels a great tension that he didn’t even realize he was holding just. Fall away. 

Twenty years to speak about, while Ichigo putters about the kitchen, and Byakuya starts with what feels most pressing-- Renji and Rukia and their awkward, stilting, incredibly sweet courtship. It will be a hundred years, at this rate, before they make any significant progress. They are already discussing the merits of a Spring wedding. 

It draws a laugh from Ichigo, soft and honest, and Byakuya’s breath catches in his chest in a way he’s forgotten it could.  _ Twenty years _ , watching him from afar, but when Ichigo passes him a plate their fingers brush and everything feels real again. Moreso, when Byakuya reaches out and pulls Ichigo in for a chaste kiss over rice and eggs and simplicity that Byakuya cannot remember ever having. 

They part, just enough to rest their foreheads together. Ichigo’s smile curls content, a cat lazing in the sun. 

It took twenty years, but, finally, they’re  _ home _ . 


	4. The Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulquiorra/Ichigo. Dishonored AU

“The Void is not a place,” Ulquiorra says. “Not in the way you think of it.”

Ichigo lays on one of the massive, floating chunks of stone and wills the night to end faster. Far beneath him there is sand, and far above him there is the moon hanging in inky blackness, and between drift dying whales between the rubble and ruins of civilizations that were and are and will be. Ichigo is still  _ pretty sure _ this place is a dream, but the Mark on his hand that follows him into the waking world is as real as the powers it seems to grant him, and it shakes his surety as the whalesongs shake the stone. 

Time passes so strangely here. The first time Ichigo was here, the night seemed to pass in a blink, not nearly enough time for him to swallow all the strange truths Ulquiorra was shoving down his throat, to comprehend the powers that had been gifted. Tonight, though, Ichigo feels as though he has spent an eternity laying in this very position, and it will be another eternity before the night comes to its close. Which would be fine, if Ichigo were allowed to  _ rest _ here, a luxury he has not indulged in for too long.

But tonight, Ulquiorra has shrugged off the pretense of polite distance they have so far maintained in favor of lounging next to Ichigo. In favor of  _ talking _ , punctuating his words with the trailing of cold fingers across Ichigo’s skin-- exposed or not, he feels those fingers, too-smooth skin and the scratch of perfectly-manicured nails, all the same. The touch is just heavy enough to be real, but just light enough to be teasing, and Ichigo’s whole body feels lit up like a firework beneath Ulquiorra’s hands. 

Hardly a restful state. 

“It watches you from in here,” Ulquiorra says, and places his hand over Ichigo’s heart. His voice is as banal as it always is when he continues, “Tell me: if I cut you open here, will I find your heart still beating?”

_ Yes _ , Ichigo wants to say, because he can  _ feel _ his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs, like it wants to leap from his chest and settle itself in Ulquiorra’s uncaring hand. Ulquiorra digs his nails in like he could dig out the organ, and maybe he can. 

Ichigo would let him try, at least. 

And Ichigo is maybe less disturbed by that though than he should be. 


	5. Godmother Yoruichi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoruichi is the Godmother of the Kurosaki kids

They first meet when Ichigo is nine. 

(They first meet when Ichigo is but a few days old. Masaki still looks tired, worn, bags under her eyes and shaking hands as she shows Yoruichi how to support the baby's head. Ichigo is so small, so _delicate_ , soft skin and a shock of bright orange hair. So _breakable_ , and Yoruichi is so scared, because her hands have never been meant for keeping things whole. 

"Isn't he beautiful?" Masaki murmurs, stroking Ichigo's hair. "I like to think he's going to grow up to have his godmother's grace.") 

Yoruichi is in a black dress, and even Kisuke has broken out his _shihakushō_ for the occasion. They stand, in the back, where even if they're seen they won't be noticed much. And it feels. _Wrong_ . Yoruichi knows that humans have such short lives, but Masaki was-- she was _young_. 

And now she is gone. 

The twins are wailing where they have their little faces pressed into Ichigo's shoulders, and it's Isshin's responsibility to stand by his wife's side, yes, but he can't even _look_ in the direction of his children, and Yoruichi feels. _Sick_ . Because she knows that look, has seen it in the eyes of too many who've lived too long and lost too much. And if they were older, maybe, and could stand on their own even under the weight of grief, Yoruichi wouldn't begrudge Isshin this. But they are _children_ , and they need their father _present_ , now more than ever. 

Nine years. For nine years, Yoruichi has given them space. _To settle_ , Isshin has said, and Yoruichi hadn’t bought it, but she’d given them space anyways. Hadn’t even kept an eye on them. Only ever visited once more, in her cat form, when the twins were born. 

She regrets it now. Because had she been watching, had she been _present_ , this _never_ would have happened. 

But she hadn’t been there, and even Shihōin Yoruichi cannot turn back the clock. 

People stream out the door past them in respectful silence. Yoruichi steps forward, through them, ignoring the weight of Kisuke’s eyes on her back and Isshin’s on her front. Counts her steps until she’s standing in front of the children, and-- they’re still so _small_ , that even crouching Yoruichi doesn’t feel quite on their level. Ichigo tips his little chin up at her, though, and beneath the sadness and the pain there’s fire in those eyes. 

His little arms pull his little sisters even closer, as though he can and will protect them from anything and everything. And oh, how Yoruichi wishes he didn’t have to feel that way. That he could be a _child_ , carefree and joyous. 

But the world is cruel, and cold, and war sits menacingly on the horizon.

Joy is always the first thing to die in war.

Yoruichi puts on her best, warmest smile as she lets Ichigo look his fill of her face.

“Who’re you?” Ichigo asks, and though it’s sharp, Yoruichi can see where the line of his little shoulders has relaxed by a degree.

“My name is Yoruichi,” she says simply. Gently. Offers him a hand-- to help him up, she doesn’t think he wants any help with the twins, and he would be offended if she even offered. _Ichigo_. _First Protector_ indeed. “I’m your godmother. And it's my job to protect you now.”


	6. Swan's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo and Grimmjow are vigilantes working for Urahara to dismantle the Triads and give the underworld back to the Shadowrunners. They hate each other.  
> (they love each other)

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ with me.”

“Don’t move too much, I’m not done yet.”

“We’ve got about fifteen seconds--”

“--and distracting me isn’t going to make me work any faster.”

“ _Ichigo_ \--!”

With a satisfying _click_ the lock finally gives, and Grimmjow damn near barrels Ichigo over to get into the warehouse. The door swings closed behind them, _Soul King’s Mercy_ . Grimmjow’s every muscle feels coiled, tense, ready to spring for the first noise that his pricked-up ears catch. Boots thud against the pavement outside-- it almost _hurts_ to keep himself still as the agonizing seconds pass.

The footsteps don’t stop. Grimmjow can’t help his sigh of relief.

Something shifts underneath him, and fingers reach up to tap against his bicep. _All clear?_

Grimmjow can’t help the growl that rises in his throat. “You’re the fuckin’ Sensor here, ain’t I supposed to be askin’ you that?”

A soft huff of laughter. Ichigo wiggles out from under Grimmjow with a motion that should be awkward but he manages to make graceful. It’s something about his proportions-- too long, too lean to be classically or conventionally beautiful, but Grimmjow can appreciate the efficiency of it. The silhouette of Ichigo’s body framed by the thin light from the warehouse’s high window. The shape of Ichigo’s--

“C’mon,” Ichigo says, and his voice is low and business-serious, and it kicks Grimmjow into gear faster than anything else. “The faster we get this done, the faster we get out of here.”

Ears up, eyes forward. Grimmjow rolls to his feet and heads towards the opposite side of the warehouse of Ichigo. It’s not a risk, it’s routine-- they’ve only gotten in one or two fights when they’ve split up like this, and Grimmjow knows damn well that Ichigo can take care of himself. And there’s really no point for a Sensor and someone with Grimmjow’s enhanced senses to search as a pair. 

It’s redundant for a Sensor and someone like Grimmjow to be working as a team at all, but. Eh. They get their jobs done in good time and with minimal fallout, and, really, what more can Hats-and-Clogs want? 

Reiatsu curls around Grimmjow, curious and concerned in the same, and Grimmjow realizes he’s been sniffing around the same crate for the last minute or so. It smells funny, like rust and sulfur and-- ah.

Red Sand.

Grimmjow spikes his reiatsu in return and starts properly poking around. Fun trick with drug smugglers, they _love_ to trap their goods to hell and back. There’s nothing to smell but Red Sand and uncooked rice at the front, but if Grimmjow listens hard he can hear the barely-there hum of a pulse mine waiting to give him the absolute worst fucking surprise if he tries anything from this angle. 

They could crack it open from one of the sides, but the noise would draw every guard and lurking smuggler for a mile around. Grimmjow hums under his breath as he glides his claws along the metal panel. He hasn’t had a good brawl in _way_ too long. 

Well. A couple dayss, actually.

Which is too long in Grimmjow’s book.

Ichigo lands on the top of the container just as Grimmjow’s claws dig in with a terrible, resounding shriek. 

“Two seconds,” Ichigo gripes, and, _oh_ , doesn’t he look _gorgeous_ , black katana slipping almost _joyously_ from its sheath. Grimmjow takes a second to memorize the sharp ferocity of Ichigo’s eyes, the way his hips flex as he settles into a ready stance. Material for later, when it’s just Grimmjow and his right hand. “You couldn’t have waited the two seconds for me to get here?”

“Nope,” Grimmjow tosses back with a toothy grin. Red Sand smells foul, and the solvent Hat-and-Clogs provided somehow smells even _worse,_ but there’s good money in thwarting Triads, if you have the guts. And Grimmjow and Ichigo? They’ve got the fucking guts.

Guts and skill, as Ichigo hops over Grimmjow’s head, sword singing in a ruthless arc of red-black magic, a low, bass hum filling the air and coating the back of Grimmjow’s tongue with the taste of copper. Flashy, especially for a sleep spell, but Ichigo always tries to disable first. Grimmjow wishes he could fault the idiot for that, but--

Under a spray of gunfire, and Grimmjow comes up with claws slicing clean through cheap body armor. Ichigo doesn’t get in Grimmjow’s way, doesn’t shove his morals in Grimmjow’s face. Used to. Doesn’t anymore. It’s part understanding, part resignation on Ichigo’s part-- Ichigo has his magic and his fingers in a lot of Seireitei’s pies, enough to keep him and his home well and safe. Grimmjow doesn’t have that. Grimmjow has his claws and his teeth and his reputation to keep him safe, _that’s it_. 

Grimmjow, on his part, is more efficient than he used to be. Less messy, since Ichigo had taken to spraying Grimmjow down with a hose before letting him into the Shōten if he came back covered in blood. Bigger, more efficient version of a spray bottle, and it’s got Grimmjow well and whipped. 

Another grunt goes down like a puppet with his strings cut, and then. Quiet. A lull before the next wave arrives. Ichigo huffs, and sheaths his sword, and-- what’s the point of having such a fancy fucking blade if he’s never gonna use the sharp edge of it?

“Time to go,” Ichigo orders, and--

 _Ichigo_ has Grimmjow well and whipped. 

Anyone even _suggests_ such a thing, and Grimmjow is gonna tear their damn throat out. 


	7. And In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bleach, Timetravel AU
> 
> "When the day comes, Masaki isn't expecting to welcome twins into the world."

When the day comes, Masaki isn't expecting to welcome twins into the world.

They're both so little. Two tiny sons with clenched fists and too-bright eyes. One has her brilliant orange hair. The first one. The oldest one. Ichigo. He's so quiet. His lungs are fine, his heart is strong, but he's so quiet, Masaki has to hold him close to her chest just to remind herself that he's there.

The younger seems determined to be loud enough for the both of them, though. He screams and screams and screams, even well after the nurse has handed him to Masaki. He's so pale, blue veins bright against his skin, and his hair is a shock of bright white, but his eyes are gold, gold, gold.

Ichigo and Satsuma shoot up like weeds. Masaki swears that they're running before they're walking, talking before they are babbling. Too smart. Too old for their tiny bodies. Ichigo is a quiet, quiet child, prone to bouts of inconsolable melancholy.

The neighbors have gotten very used to Satsuma clambering onto the roof just to scream, five years old and already so angry, offended that the world is too big and the sky is too tall.

"Shiro," Ichigo chides when Masaki has finally gotten Satsuma down (and however did he get up there in the first place?). Satsuma wiggles his way out of Masaki's arms, shoving himself into Ichigo's space in the same way that's gotten him into fights with kids his own age, and Masaki knows these boundary and codependency issues are going to be a problem as they get older, but right now she looks at her two sons curled up under a kotatsu and lays a hand on her stomach, knowing that their baby sibling will be the safest little sibling in the world.

(Somehow she is still surprised when she brings two daughters into the world on the same night. Karin and Yuzu, different as night and day even in those first moments, but Masaki supposes she should just take relief in the fact that at least now she roughly knows what to expect when raising them.)

...

Nine years old, Ichigo holds Karin and Satsuma holds Yuzu and together they watch Isshin break apart over Masaki's death. All of their combined knowledge of the past and future means nothing when they are ten years old, minds filled with memories of skills their bodies don't remember yet. Ichigo at least takes some cold comfort, pressing Yuzu's face into his neck-- it wasn't his fault. It really wasn't. Not this time, not last time. Satsuma took all of the Hollow aspects from Masakis soul, her Quincy bow flared for just a moment in the face of Grand Fischer, before it sputtered out with the scent of blood and silver.

(That night, Ichigo follows Satsuma onto the roof and just. Holds him. As he  _ screams _ , sharp and two-toned and Hollow-hurt. Remembers how much it hurt, the first time she died. It hurts just as much this time, but. Satsuma only ever knew this moment from Ichigo's memories. And now his screams shake every drop of rain that falls. 

"We'll get him this time," Ichigo says, low and raw. "I promise. We won't have to do this again. This time,  _ we'll get him _ .")

...

Fifteen finds Kurosaki Ichigo the vice-captain of the kyudo club, Kurosaki "Shiro" Satsuma vice-captain of the kendo club. Top-ten students, not terribly popular but with a tight-knit group of friends.

They aren't who Rukia would have chosen, but Ichigo is knocked out where he tried to protect Yuzu, and Setsuma has a shark-grin where he looms over Rukia, blood too bright against his pale skin where he stepped between Rukia and the Hollow, and she doesn't think twice before offering him her powers.

("We aren't much better than him, you know," Ichigo says when their spar has taken them out of Getaboshi's reiatsu-enhanced hearing range. "Using Rukia like this. If something changes, she might die before we can get to her."

"Do you have another idea, smart-ass?!" Shiro snarls, swings his Zanpakuto hard enough at Ichigo's head at the impact jars the staff of Ichigo's reishi bow in his hands. "I can't open a Garganta yet, and neither of us know how to open a Senkaimon. We. Need. Them."

Hirenkyaku still trips up Ichigo's feet when he isn't paying attention. Shiro lands on top of him, black blade sliding into the ground dangerously close to Ichigo's throat.

"I don't like it either," Shiro finally says after a long moment of silence. "But they both were pushing for this anyways. We might as well make the most of it.")

…

Ichigo is the one who kills Aizen-- Satsuma with long hair looks too much like Ukitake, especially in the white shihakusho Satsuma insists on wearing, but Ichigo's orange hair and red-on-black Quincy uniform is... distinctive. There are better ways of doing it, probably. Quieter ways. But they need the Hogyoku, and they need Seireitei united against Yhwach, so when Momo arrives to the Fifth in the morning she finds Aizen dead from a single Quincy arrow through the heart, Ichigo kneeling among more than enough proof of Aizen's crimes.

(“You’re not a fucking samurai,” Satsuma spits, when it’s all finally over and done and Ichigo is released from the depths of Shin'ōchikadaikangoku. His tone is angry, and his hug is tight enough that Ichigo’s bones creak, but his reiatsu is a familiar, comforting blanket on Ichigo’s shoulders. “I don’t need you defending my honor.”

“Oh please,” Ichigo mutters into Satsuma’s shoulder. “A  _ samurai _ ? I’d  _ die _ first.”)

…

Eighteen finds Ichigo at the end of one final, terrible war. He's eighteen, and he's twenty two, and he's forty, and it's  _ over _ . The same soul-silver that had killed his mother, buried in Yhwach's heart. The hogyoku that had so long hummed with his wish finally silent, crumbling away like the sands of time. He's young, and he's old, and he's died, and he has his whole life ahead of him.

That's how Kisuke finds him, melancholy and nostalgic, sitting in the second-story window and tracking Satsuma and Grimmjow as they chase each other through Karakura's alleys. He comes bearing a small bowl of watermelon candies-- two and eighteen years, and he's finally managed to make his own version of Ichigo's favorite candy that Ichigo can't find fault in. He rests the bowl in Ichigo's lap, his chin on Ichigo's shoulder, and together like two old men they enjoy the late-day sun.

"Backwards, or forward?" Kisuke asks suddenly, apropos of nothing, and everything. Ichigo isn't surprised, not really-- Kisuke is a genius, after all. It's only a surprise that it took him eighteen years to figure it out. 

Ichigo opens his mouth to respond, only for Kisuke to stop him.

"No, no, don't tell me. It's. Probably better if I don't know. Just this once."

Maybe. And maybe Ichigo will tell him the whole sordid tale, someday. 

For now, though...

It's over.

And their life together has only just begun.


	8. wilson (expensive mistakes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i honestly don't know what this is someone in a discord im in said "Shinji/Renji" as a joke but not im shipping it seriously and idk what to do

Shinji is damn well old enough to recognize the feeling of being in love.

It’s always been a slow thing, for him, a tide creeping in, roots pushing steadily deep. A flash of bright hair and a somehow brighter smile. A kind word. A passing hand on his shoulder-- as greeting, as farewell, as comfort and as a challenge. A dozen, a  _ thousand _ little things that pile up, slowly, but. Irrevocably. 

He watches the small thing that pushes its way slow out of the dark-ash earth of his heart, and he can do nothing about it. 

There’s too many of them at the same table, but there’s no way they’re going to split the party on the rare night they all have off, and war, though behind them, has made him comfortable with each other. Shoulder to shoulder, sometimes half in each others’ laps, and Shinji doesn’t know if the cup he’s drinking from is his own, but he supposes at this point it doesn’t even matter. They’re all well and drunk, even if it doesn’t so much outwardly show on some of them.

Abarai hangs off Shinji as he howls with laughter at whatever joke Kurosaki told. His face is flush almost as red as his hair, and beneath his haori his  _ shihakushō _ is starting to slip off his shoulder, baring skin and stark black lines of tattoos. The room is hot with summer heat and the number of people, but still Abarai’s arm around Shinji’s waist  _ burns _ with every point of contact. 

Shinji has pushed away that touch maybe a half-dozen times in the last hour, and without fail it has settled back in place. Shinji’s ready to just. Resign himself to being the one with any self-control, even as he slowly sips at his saké. It’s good saké, and Shinji’s already paid his part of the tab. He might as well enjoy something tonight. 

Not that tonight hasn’t been enjoyable, in places-- Kurosaki is a surprisingly good storyteller, for such a reserved young man, once alcohol loosens him up a touch. He sits closer to Kisuke than is maybe polite even in this company, and Shinji pretends not to notice when Kisuke’s hands falls on the side of possessive on Kurosaki’s thigh. 

Pretends not to notice when Kisuke meets his eyes, then glances at Abarai, then back. Kisuke’s quick head gets ahead of itself, sometimes.

There’s. Nothing. Between Shinji and Abarai. Maybe Shinji holds  _ something _ for Abarai, sure, a flower that blisters his fingers like a flame, but. That’s it.

Shinji’s damn well old enough to know what love feels like, and he can damn well tell when it’s being reciprocated. And yeah, Abarai sometimes looks at him with fondness, or trust, or  _ heat _ , but not--

Someone bumps into Madarame, who bumps into Rangiku, who spills her saké over Shinji’s sleeve, and even as she starts to slur out an apology Abarai turns on her with a  _ snarl _ . It’s sudden, and  _ feral _ , and Shinji feels it rumble up his shoulder and around the small of his back as he bodily keeps the two apart. From the fond exasperation on some of the faces around the table, Shinji can assume this isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but.

“Maybe you’ve had enough,” Shinji suggests, as low as he can get away with, uncomfortably aware of how Abarai has  _ grabbed him _ , and the placement of his own hands on Abarai’s chest. How they probably look-- Shinji is, maybe, a touch too old to care about what people whisper behind his back, but Abarai is  _ quite _ a bit younger, and naturally hot-headed to boot. 

It’s probably just a still-healing injury, Shinji thinks, a spasm that has Abarai’s hand tightening in the back of Shinji’s haori. 

“Yeah,” Abarai growls, then sighs. Gentler, “Yeah. I’ve probably had too much, honestly.”

Shinji hums in agreement and stands with Abarai. He could stay-- Abarai is hardly swaying on his feet, and the Third isn’t far. War has left them with more than comfort in camaraderie, though. Shinji’s got too many memories of friends slipping off into the dark and never coming back, and alcohol isn’t doing its job in helping him forget. 

At least there’s a breeze when they step outside. Shinji closes his eyes and lets it carry away the humidity and the sharp smell of alcohol, and in the heavy scent of peonies growing against the Fifth and the dry bite of dust of a training yard not far beyond. Somewhere in the distance there’s the rolling of summer thunder, but no rain. The breeze tugs at his hair, and it tickles the back of his neck-- Shinji doesn’t think he’ll return to his style of over a century ago anytime soon, but he is growing his hair out again. Or, at least, he keeps forgetting to get it cut. 

Abarai is staring at him when Shinji opens his eyes. It’s an intense kind of expression, but otherwise unreadable. Would make for a hell of a poker face. Shinji grins and wonders if Abarai plays. Wonders if Abarai even knows what poker is. 

He might make a good addition to the weekly meetup, with a face like that. Or, at least, maybe Hisagi might finally stop bitching about being the youngest at the table by a couple centuries. 

It’s Rose’s old apartment, Shinji realizes with a sinking feeling that seems to settle heavy in his stomach. Of course Abarai would take Rose’s old apartment, it’s the Captain Third’s apartment. It’s just. Shinji could find his way here in his sleep. But there aren’t wind chimes above the windows anymore, or the smell of the incense Rose liked to burn, and Shinji’s mind catches on what else Abarai must have changed.

Abarai steps forward and unlocks his door, then pauses. Turns to face Shinji. Takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“Hirako-san,” Abarai starts, then stops. Wets his lips, and Shinji can’t help the way his eyes track that teasing glimpse of a pink tongue. “ _ Shinji _ , I--”

“Whatever it is--” Shinji says, cutting Abarai off with the press of a single finger. Those lips are  _ soft _ . It takes  _ effort _ to pull away. “--I’m sure it can wait for when you’re sober.” 

A pinched kind of expression passes over Abarai’s face before he nodes. Looks Shinji in the eyes, with fondness and trust and  _ heat _ .

And, maybe, just maybe, something else too.

He turns, and disappears inside. Shinji forces himself to not linger. 


End file.
